{
  "attachments": [],
  "title": "Don't Thank the Gnomes",
  "author": "lmorchard",
  "layout": "post",
  "permalink": "/2010/05/19/dont-thank-the-gnomes",
  "dsq_thread_id": [
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  "categories": [
    "Uncategorized"
  ],
  "tags": [
    "fantasy",
    "ficly",
    "fiction",
    "flashfiction",
    "gnomes",
    "kindness",
    "urban"
  ],
  "year": "2010",
  "month": "05",
  "day": "19",
  "isDir": false,
  "slug": "dont-thank-the-gnomes",
  "type": "entry",
  "date": "2010-05-19T19:00:00.000Z",
  "postName": "2010-05-19-dont-thank-the-gnomes",
  "html": "<div>\n  <p>\n    I started the morning by sneaking into a strange house through an unsealed milk door. There was a broken shoe heel on the second floor—its <em>wrongness</em> drew me up the stairs as sure as a cord tied round my ribs. It was done before the lady of the house could sigh.\n  </p>\n  \n  <p>\n    \n\n<!--more-->\n\n\n  </p>\n  \n  <p>\n    The next house was brick and so I, being of the Earth, could slip between the cracks. Modern wiring was a bitch, but I managed. Here, a child’s handheld game machine had met a bath. Though not an electronic-smith, I’d long ago lost my fear of iron—my will could right the wrong nonetheless.\n  </p>\n  \n  <p>\n    The third house spelled my doom. I’d been there before, but had somehow forgotten. I’d made a believer out of the household son. He waited for me, sat with milk and honey beside a broken pair of spectacles.\n  </p>\n  \n  <p>\n    Gratitude and fear swelled both in my chest. His glasses I fixed, and his offering I supped. Long unused to the proper rites, I confess I spilled some in my beard.\n  </p>\n  \n  <p>\n    “Thanks,” he said, habitually, mistakenly.\n  </p>\n  \n  <p>\n    With that, I began a century spent as stone.\n  </p>\n</div>\n\n",
  "body": "<div>\r\n  <p>\r\n    I started the morning by sneaking into a strange house through an unsealed milk door. There was a broken shoe heel on the second floor—its <em>wrongness</em> drew me up the stairs as sure as a cord tied round my ribs. It was done before the lady of the house could sigh.\r\n  </p>\r\n  \r\n  <p>\r\n    <!--more-->\r\n  </p>\r\n  \r\n  <p>\r\n    The next house was brick and so I, being of the Earth, could slip between the cracks. Modern wiring was a bitch, but I managed. Here, a child’s handheld game machine had met a bath. Though not an electronic-smith, I’d long ago lost my fear of iron—my will could right the wrong nonetheless.\r\n  </p>\r\n  \r\n  <p>\r\n    The third house spelled my doom. I’d been there before, but had somehow forgotten. I’d made a believer out of the household son. He waited for me, sat with milk and honey beside a broken pair of spectacles.\r\n  </p>\r\n  \r\n  <p>\r\n    Gratitude and fear swelled both in my chest. His glasses I fixed, and his offering I supped. Long unused to the proper rites, I confess I spilled some in my beard.\r\n  </p>\r\n  \r\n  <p>\r\n    “Thanks,” he said, habitually, mistakenly.\r\n  </p>\r\n  \r\n  <p>\r\n    With that, I began a century spent as stone.\r\n  </p>\r\n</div>",
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  "path": "2010/05/19/dont-thank-the-gnomes",
  "summary": "I started the morning by sneaking into a strange house through an unsealed milk door. There was a broken shoe heel on the second floor—its wrongness drew me up the stairs as sure as a cord tied round my ribs. It was done before the lady of the house could sigh.",
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  "prevPostPath": "2010/05/19/famous-last-words",
  "prevPostTitle": "Famous Last Words",
  "nextPostPath": "2010/06/07/tinderbox-article-tutorial",
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